


A Thousand Dreams (I Still Believe)

by roseandheather



Category: Code Black (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, a little smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-24
Updated: 2016-01-24
Packaged: 2018-05-15 22:19:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5802253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roseandheather/pseuds/roseandheather
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's not the most demonstrative person on earth. Sometimes he worries about this.</p><p>Christa doesn't, and she rather effectively convinces him not to, either.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Thousand Dreams (I Still Believe)

"Whatever you're worrying about, you probably shouldn't be."

He doesn't jump. Not when Christa is pressed full-length against him, when his arms are wrapped around her, when her scent fills his senses and he wonders how he ever slept properly without her in his arms.

He sighs. "I know. But I still do."

She shrugs against him, the movement small but still palpable. "You could tell me about it."

_How do I tell you that I never stop worrying I'm not enough for you?_

"I'm not the most - demonstrative of people," he admits at last, because he owes Christa the truth - in this, and in everything. "And sometimes I wonder..."

"What?" asks Christa. "If you show it enough - your feelings for me?"

"Well." _It sounds a bit stupid when you say it like that._ "Yes."

"Neal." She nestles more closely against him, and he takes her hand, thumb gently stroking over her knuckles. "You think I don't know? It's in every time you look at me, babe. Every smile, every twinkle in your eyes, every time you worry about me getting hurt - every single time you touch me. No, you're not the most demonstrative of people, but it doesn't matter to _me._ I know what I see, and everything else is irrelevant."

He squeezes her hand more tightly at that. "Oh, Christa."

"But if you're really worried," she adds teasingly, hand sliding down his chest to his hip, "you could always... _demonstrate_ your affections for me now. Thoroughly."

Now he's grinning as his hands begin to wander, and he doesn't need to look at her to see the smile on her face. He knows her body now: the way she sighs when he strokes her lower back, the way she groans when his tongue curls around a nipple, the way she melts when his lips trace over the spidery stretch marks of her abdomen.

She'd worried about those, once upon a time - about the slight, soft swell of her belly, about the tracery of lines that marked her history. He'd kissed away those fears long ago - but still he loves to worship her there, to pay homage to the beautiful tragedy that has shaped her life. He wonders, occasionally, what she was like before her son passed away, before he became ill - did she wear her heart on her sleeve then as much as she does now, meeting the world with an openhearted courage that still astounds him?

But as much as he regrets her pain, he cannot regret anything that brought her into his life. Not a damn thing, no matter how much he tries.

She sighs and rolls beneath him, baring her throat to his lips. They're already naked, tangled skin to skin, and she takes him into her with a satisfied little sigh, arching beneath him and softening like molten wax until he's kissing her deep and soft, murmuring nonsense endearments against her lips and then, when they're forehead to forehead, into the tiny space between them.

" _Neal,_ " she gasps, and the sound of her pleasure is more than enough to bring him to the edge. She kisses him again and it's enough, more than - he reaches between them even as he comes, with jerking hips and a low moan in his throat, and he's barely touched her before she shudders and buries her face in his neck, body still trembling.

When he rolls to the side she follows, one leg still hooked over his hip, and he knows this mood - she still wants him inside her, as long as possible, doesn't want the emptiness, can't bear it yet, she says, so he splays one hand between her shoulder blades and presses a sloppy kiss to her temple.

"Satisfactory?" he rumbles, his voice still rough, and she nods against him, smiling, soft and a little bit foolish.

"Perfect," she admits, and snuggles closer. "Just perfect."

When he wakes, her legs will be pins and needles and his arm will be utterly numb.

Neither of them will care.


End file.
